


Duckling

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Sex Work, Uncle/Nephew Incest, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-10
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-14 01:16:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4544517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Imrahil and Faramir visit a brothel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Duckling

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I know Imrahil’s a white dude in the movies. I’m just choosing to ignore it.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He startles when the curtain opens, nearly choking on his drink. The brass goblet trembles in his hands, and Faramir splutters some of the wine back into it, feeling uncouth and clumsy. His cheeks have been pink since he entered this place. He feels distinctly _awkward_ , having no clue what to do with himself. Still, that isn’t his hosts’ fault, and so he tries to smile when he turns. 

He’s visibly relieved when it isn’t the proprietor, ushering in new simpering woman with an eye for their prince. Faramir already paid his dues, but that hasn’t stopped the brothel’s hospitality. It’s much easier to look upon his uncle, who stands on his side of the doorway with the pink silk falling back into place behind. Imrahil’s disheveled, obviously having come from his own fun. His wavy black hair is a mess, like too many fingers have run through it, and his white tunic’s several buttons open to reveal sweat-slicked brown skin: a tantalizing peak for Faramir, who tries not to blush any deeper. The prince of Dol Amroth glances about the room, noting absently, “I had heard you were alone. They have no women here to your liking?”

“It isn’t that,” Faramir fumbles. Like Imrahil, he’s down to his trousers and tunic, even his boots having been stripped away to sit by the door. But he allowed no more than that, and not for any fault of the women offered to him. Imrahil dons a soft smile.

“There is no shame in it,” he promises, so very different than Denethor would. Though Minis Tirith is the pride of Gondor, in some ways, Dol Amroth is a wiser place. Faramir nods his agreement. 

He opens his dry mouth, takes another sip of wine, then sets his goblet down on the round table amidst all the drapery and tall, red-curtained-off windows, explaining quietly, “But I am in love with another.”

Imrahil lets out a tired sigh, but the smile doesn’t leave his face. He comes closer, walking over the elaborate rug and through the array of pillows, piled around the base of the bed, high with thick layers of sheets and rich blankets. Imrahil doesn’t stop until his feet are touching Faramir’s, his strong body just that bit broader, darker and stronger and more seasoned, but also more _timeless_ —he often seems to have the blood of elves in him, though their line isn’t so different. He reaches his hand to brush along Faramir’s, skimming up his arm, hot even through his sleeve. At Faramir’s small shoulder, Imrahil grips it and squeezes: a warrior’s encouragement.

“Two princes cannot be together forever,” Imrahil murmurs, the smile now bittersweet. “You would do well to learn to indulge in the body of another.”

Faramir returns, “I know.” But he doesn’t mean it. He feels small and distinctly unequipped. Riding alongside the mountains of Mordor seems easier than this, strolling through a building in his own city, meant to lie with someone fair and sweet and of his father’s want, when he’d far rather sail to Dol Amroth and curl up in his rugged uncle’s arms. He forces himself to say, “Thank you for taking me here, though my father would kill me for it.”

Imrahil laughs. He sounds beautiful, as beautiful as he looks, and he leans forward to kiss Faramir’s forehead, drawing aside honey hair. He muses aloud, “Denethor does not know the treasure he holds.” He does, just a different treasure: Boromir would have no such reservations in a place like this; he doesn’t confuse his heart and body so deeply as his little brother. 

Still, Faramir is grateful that he’s the one Imrahil takes specially aside. He knows a part of it is that he seems to need the protection: for all the cruelty Denethor gives him, Imrahil soothes the wounds. Another part is _this_ , the connection that burns between them even when Imrahil’s had others, and Faramir’s meant to go. Faramir mutters, “I am sorry to have wasted the visit.”

Imrahil’s lips twitch up at the ends. His gaze slips sideways to the bed, his hand smoothing down Faramir’s chest to curve and clutch at Faramir’s hip. Faramir grunts, his crotch tugged closer, and Imrahil purrs, “It need not be wasted. I never come without such pleasures, and I choose only the most discreet establishments.” When his eyes return to Faramir’s, they’re thick and dilated, raking hungrily down Faramir’s form. Faramir’s tugged that fraction closer, forcing him to stumble against Imrahil’s chest. He’s never so clumsy as this. He feels raw and _vulnerable_ in Imrahil’s arms, but wouldn’t trade it. A shiver of _want_ runs through him. 

He teases, “Will you pay me?”

Imrahil laughs, “I always pay well, and I would do doubly so for a prince.”

Faramir grins in response, laughing back, “But I am getting a prince as well.”

“No: you are getting what you are given.” With a winning smirk, Imrahil turns Faramir to the bed, shoving him forward, and Faramir’s kneels buckle. He collapses happily atop the plush sheets, sinking down as Imrahil stalks over him, always his knight in shining armour to carry him out of the gloom.


End file.
